


Fields of Gold

by HumanTrampoline



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Happy Ending, Harry Hart Lives, Lullabies, M/M, Romance, Slice of Death, Slice of Life, for a time, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3781879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanTrampoline/pseuds/HumanTrampoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And you can tell the sun, in his jealous sky, when we walked in fields of gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fields of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Missbecky for unintentionally starting this. Thanks to Missbecky, Nightwalker, and Directorshellhead for the uh. Moral support while writing this. By which I mean not killing me after I repeatedly feels!shanked them.
> 
> This story is very, very much inspired by Eva Cassidy's cover of Fields of Gold, which you may find a recording of here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DWg7zNOyK8
> 
> I would highly recommend listening to it. Otherwise, enjoy, and my apologies in advance, please know I wept while writing this and I am not typically a crier. This fandom is doing things to me. Also, not 100% vital knowledge and certainly not required reading, but this is the same 'verse as Trigger Warning.
> 
> EDIT (05/02/15): Edits have been made, nothing changes the plot, just things I feel make it a smoother read.

  
“Unca Harry?”

 

“Yes, Daisy?”

 

Eggsy stops partway up the stairs. He’d been about to check in, ask if there was anything Harry needed; it’s not exactly like he’s had lots of experience putting four-year-olds to bed. From Harry’s calm tone though, and the sleep creeping into Daisy’s voice, it’s sounding like Operation: Toddler Bedtime is turning out to be a success.

 

“Can you sing for me, please? Mummy does b’fore bed.”

 

It strikes Eggsy then that he doesn’t know if Harry can carry a tune. Two years living together and a year properly dating and Eggsy can’t remember ever hearing him sing, or even hum. He’s never even thought to ask; he may have to step in after all. Daisy’s particular about this bit of nightly ritual. Eggsy mentally kicks himself for forgetting.

 

He’s surprised by a quiet chuckle.

 

“I’ll endeavor to do my best, Miss Unwin.”

 

Eggsy strains his ears and then he can hear it, very faint to start but growing stronger. Harry’s humming what sounds like opening bars to some tune he doesn't recognize. It's no lullaby he knows or heard his mum sing. When Harry switches from humming to singing proper, Eggsy's heart swells. The words about wind and barley aren't familiar but it’s a peaceful song, if a little sad. Harry’s voice is plain but sweet, nothing to ever hear on the radio but he thinks it’s lovely all the same.

 

Harry’d expressed so much doubt at the start that he and Eggsy could work, had worried that he’d only be a hindrance. And now he’s singing Daisy to sleep. Eggsy smiles, listens to words about lovers and fields, and thinks _we’re all gonna be ok_. He turns and pads back down the stairs to the living room to wait for Harry to finish up.

 

\---

 

Torn rotator cuff. If he hears ‘lucky you didn’t break your wrist and/or arm’ one more time, he’s going to throw something. Yes, in hindsight, maybe diving out the second story window after the bloke was a poor plan, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, and anyways they got the job done. Roxy stopped the traffickers, and Eggsy managed to retrieve the equipment Merlin had insisted they find. The glow of a job well done, however, does little to soothe the throbbing ache in his right shoulder. It doesn’t help that it’s approaching midnight, he’s still two hours out from his next dose of pain meds, and he’s guiltily certain that if he tries to get comfortable one more time, Harry’s probably going to get up and move to the next room.

 

This is rapidly becoming the worst night he’s had in recent memory.

 

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, or at least rest, but the ache is really distracting and all he wants to do is roll onto his right side. Why is it always that being told _not_ to do something just makes it all the more appealing? He sighs when he feels the mattress shift. Harry’s getting out of bed, likely headed for the guest room and away from Eggsy’s constant fidgeting. He bites down the instinctive _I’m sorry_ , knowing that Harry would only say he’s nothing to be sorry for. In Eggsy’s mind he’s got plenty to apologize about: _sorry I threw myself out a window like a berk, sorry I got banged up and now you’re stuck lookin’ after me, sorry I’m chasing you out of your own bed, sorry I’m hurt that you’re going to sleep somewhere else even though it makes all the sense in the world…_ The list goes on.

 

He startles a bit as several soft _thumps_ land next to his feet. After he blinks a few times, he can make out Harry at the foot of the bed; he’s apparently gathered almost every other pillow in the house. Before Eggsy can ask, though, Harry’s speaking, voice gentle in the dark.

 

“Turn on your left side, love. Let’s see if we can’t make you more comfortable.”

 

Eggsy does as he’s asked, shuffling to his left and grimacing even with that slight movement. “What you think this is gonna do, exactly?”

 

“We can try elevating your right arm a bit, see if it helps with the shoulder. Can you lift it slightly, or would you like help?”

 

Eggsy tries and hisses out a short breath; without a word Harry’s by him, hand at his right elbow, bearing the weight to get his arm lifted. He slides a throw pillow between Eggsy’s arm and torso and then meets his eyes.

 

“Any better?”

 

He takes a breath, lets the new position settle. It _is_ actually better. His shoulder still aches but it’s dampened down to a level he might be able to sleep thorough, given time enough...or maybe just a song.

 

“I- Yeah, actually. Loads.” He grins up at Harry. “Be lost without you, you know.”

 

Harry’s smile is fond. “Nonsense. You’d only be less stylish.” He leans down, brushes Eggsy’s hair out of his eyes and kisses his forehead. “Let’s both try and get some sleep now.”

 

Eggsy waits until Harry’s settled back in bed before asking. He’s still slightly uncomfortable, but maybe he can get to sleep with just a little more help.

 

“Harry?”

 

“Yes, darling?”

 

He bites his lip, feels more than a little foolish at requesting a lullaby at his age, but Harry's never been one for preconceived notions and expected behaviour. He's also never denied Eggsy anything that was in his power to give. “D’you think you could sing for me?”

 

Eggsy can hear his smile in the darkness.

 

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Unwin.”

 

It’s the same song from before, the one about barley and wind. Eggsy drifts off thinking of wheat fields and promises, and promises he has yet to make.

 

\---

 

He’s nestled against Harry’s chest, nosing at his collarbone, enjoying the smell of his skin and the heat between them, the various tender places that will bloom bruises in the morning. He grins and threads his left hand with Harry’s, thrilling at the slight scrape of their wedding bands colliding.

 

“Good night, husband.”

 

The huff of Harry’s laugh stirs his hair, and Eggsy's heart soars with Harry’s soft reply.

 

“Good night, husband.”

 

As they’re both drifting into sleep, tangled together, Eggsy has an idea. He squeezes Harry’s hand gently and starts humming. He looks up to see recognition dawn sweet on Harry’s face just as he switches to actual words, Eggsy’s voice rough with how much he loves this man.

 

“ _But I swear, in the days still left, we’ll walk in fields of gold. We’ll walk in fields of gold._ ”

 

The kiss they share after easily ranks in Eggsy’s top five.

 

\---

 

It turns out grief is a punch you can’t brace for. It’s an opponent you can’t quite dodge.

 

It has been eight months, six days, fourteen hours and seventeen minutes since Harry died.

 

Eight months, four days, and thirty minutes since the funeral.

 

Eggsy is thirty seven years old.

 

A son and a brother. A Kingsman.

 

A widow.

 

They had ten years together. Ten years. More than many get, but Eggsy knows eternity still wouldn’t have been enough.

 

 _Grief’s calculus_ , he thinks bitterly. He knows every shattering second between _now_ and _then_. Knows the weighted looks Roxy gives him when he says he’s not hungry. He even knows this patch of earth by heart, though he’s only seen it once before.

 

_Harry Hart, husband and friend. September 9th, 1962 - August 22nd, 2027_

 

He wants to say something to his husband’s grave, but what? What words could possibly convey everything welling up within him: the rising tide of grief, the perpetual dull burn of anger, and running through it all, _love_. Love still so thick and potent Eggsy may as well choke on it. What could he say to explain how every morning is still a struggle in remembering, how some days it feels like Harry’s just a heartbeat away, just around the corner, just a step behind him, surely not _gone_. Surely he hasn’t left Eggsy all on his own.

 

Eggsy supposes most people would say some variant of ‘ _miss you_ ’ in this situation, but it’s so ridiculously inadequate that he almost laughs.

 

He could never _just_ miss Harry Hart.

 

Something that sounds like music drifts through the cemetery, and Eggsy’s heart stops at the tune.

 

_And you can tell the sun, in his jealous sky,_

 

He falls to his knees and he breaks as he hasn’t since the doctors said ‘Stage 4.’ Covers his face and weeps as though he might finally spend all these damn tears.

 

_when we walked in fields of gold._

 

\---

 

His first thought is ' _it's warm_ ' which means he's definitely not in medical, because no matter how many blankets, it's always colder there than a witch's tit. Rox usually jokes it's just 'cause he's old and soft. Always clucks her tongue and has some smart line about how he's just gotten too used to the finer things, _what **would** 23 year-old Eggsy say, hmm? My, my._

 

When he opens his eyes, there's nothing but blue expanse and gold... wheat? He's in the middle of a field?

 

What.

 

He'd just been in Mumbai, back up was headed his way, this is not...

 

He clambers up from his apparent sprawl, bewildered. There's nothing but wheat for miles as far as he can tell. It’s beautiful, golds and oranges and yellows, blue, _blue_ sky, and he should probably be panicking, but somehow he just. Doesn't feel like it. Come to think of it, getting up should have taken a lot longer. Should have probably hurt more, too. He glances down and-- that is _not_ the suit he was wearing when he left Dubai this morning. The tan cotton has been replaced by black trousers and a white button up. The trousers look suspiciously similar to the ones of his first suit, long since retired. They're even pinstriped.

 

More fascinating than his change in wardrobe though is the change in himself. His hands are young again. The burn across his left, the scars along his index fingers, the pock marks from the acid incident, all of them gone. His wedding band still shines up at him though, bright and gleaming. He must look a looney, standing in the middle of a field, gaping at his own hands. Thankfully, there doesn't seem to be anyone about.

 

"It takes some getting used to, I won't lie."

 

Eggsy nearly trips over himself turning around. _It can't be, I'm dreaming, I haven't heard that voice in **years**._

 

But for all the impossibility, it's true. Harry Hart is standing a stone's throw away, hands in his pockets, smiling brilliantly under the sun. Younger than Eggsy can ever remember him, but no less _Harry_ for it.

 


End file.
